


black and blue (ain't nobody's business if I do)

by explodinganyway



Category: Community
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:36:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explodinganyway/pseuds/explodinganyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her eyelashes are so long and light. They brush across her cheek gently and you can see the difference between the black of her mascara and the white blonde without it. You want to kiss her to wake her up, like something out of a fairy tale, but this is Britta and you’re not even sure if she's going to want to talk to you when she wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	black and blue (ain't nobody's business if I do)

**Author's Note:**

> These two won't leave my head, so I hope you enjoy this. If you do, I have many other Annie/Britta pieces under time.forgets on ff.net.

You don’t know why you’re up at the crack of dawn, in Britta’s apartment, in her bed, watching her sleep. Well...you do know, but you’re not quite ready to admit it to yourself yet. Sure the kiss had been your idea but it had been during the semi darkness, during rain pouring outside, loud through the window Britta never closed because she couldn’t reach it. It had been when you were both a little tipsy from the bottle of wine you’d opened and Britta had been discussing 1984 in such beautiful depth that you couldn’t help yourself. It’s morning now and the reality of what you did, without any plan or warning or order to it, is making you too nervous to go back to sleep.

Britta's face doesn’t relax, even in sleep and you’re not quite sure why but it hurts to watch. Her eyes flicker beneath their lids, the skin thin and tinted blue. You wonder if she’s having a good dream- maybe even a dream about you- but she’s whimpering under her breath, an almost constant stream and you know you’re just trying too hard to be optimistic. It hurts you to watch Britta’s face in pain, but you feel like you deserve it, so you keep your eyes open even though they burn.

Her hair is everywhere; you had run your fingers through it last night, amazed by the softness, the tiny knots your fingers would run into, like her hair was trying it’s hardest to keep you close. You’re sure yours is a crazy mass above your head and probably in need of a wash but you don't feel the usual panic over getting up straight away to do it. Besides, you're not sure how Britta would feel about you just taking a shower in her apartment. Hell, you're not sure how she's going to feel about last night, and that worry feels like it weighs a tonne, sitting right on top of your chest.

Your fingers quiver, move as though the air is cement, inch closer and closer until they just brush against pale skin. You're touching her arm, strokes going more confident as Britta stays asleep, her murmurs growing quieter. You're not sure if this is 'okay', you're not sure about anything anymore and you wonder if Girls Wine Night turns out this way for everyone. The ache in your chest as Britta mumbles, pushes closer into you so her head is resting on your side, that ache tells you that no, it isn't like this for everyone.

Her eyelashes are so long and light. They brush across her cheek gently and you can see the difference between the black of her mascara and the white blonde without it. You want to kiss her to wake her up, like something out of a fairy tale, but this is Britta and you’re not even sure if she's going to want to talk to you when she wakes up.

You breathe in the scent of her room; smoky and warm like the cup of tea and cigarette you watched her consume last night. It had been enchanting, the way her tongue would flicker out to grab the lasting sweetness of the tea, the subtle move of her chest with the drawing in of the smoke, the distant look in her eyes obscured by steam and smoke. It felt so right; that Britta had to be hidden by the thick haze before her face completely relaxed, that she had to have her hands full with something aside from you for her shoulders to bow down. You had seen that look again, half hidden by darkness and messy hair, and only for a second. It was when you were laid out across her bed, clothes somewhere amongst the mess that reflected her mind. She had been running her hand down your stomach, eyes flickering between it, your heaving chest and your dark eyes.  
Her face then had been screwed up tight, like she was searching for reason or sense or logic somewhere in her mind before going too far. You had abandoned reason long before, with your hands buried in thin strands that reflected gold in the street light but you didn't try to discourage her. If she could find some sense then maybe it would help the both of you.

You still don't know if she figured it out but her hand had moved suddenly, sweeping from the bottom of your ribs to your hip bone to finally finally finally between your legs. You had arched up, overcome with feelings and colours you had never imagined yet you had kept your eyes locked on her face, watched as her eyes grew wide at her own daring, watched as her face smoothed out into the mirror of her previous look. It had been strange to see without the cover of smoke, it had been piercing from the close distance, but it had let you be fully taken over by her. Your back arched before your eyes clenched shut and you heard your breath leave shakily and mix with hers. You could imagine that; your loose shaking breath deep purple in the night and her tiny sigh, flighty and green mixing in the small space between you.

You're brought back to the room, to the present by music. It's quiet but in the near silence of the room, it shocks you. Britta grumbles and pushes further into you, still not waking. You move your hand from her arm to run through her hair, running over the top of knots that you had caused last night.  
"Do you want me to turn it off?" you ask, just loud enough to be heard over the song growing steadily louder. She mumbles her consent, fine-boned face scrunching as she stretches her body out. You find the snooze button by feel, your eyes not wanting to look away from Britta, not wanting to miss this slow morning. Except looking at her means you see her eyes open, and then widen. It means you see her mouth fall as she goes to say something and it means you see the wildness that creeps into her movements as she pulls away from you, sits up straight and leans back.

It’s enchanting but horrible. She looks almost like a wild animal, like she’s slowly pulling down the border between her every day movements and the feline feralness. You want to see more of her moving like that, with her brain let loose; you want to combine the way she moved last night with your fingers inside her with this creature. It’s beautiful, but she’s looking at you like a mistake, like a huge mistake and she’s out of her bed in an instant, body never stilling.

She's cursing in a full stream now and you've gathered the blankets close to your body. This wasn't how it was supposed to go; she was supposed to wake up to your eyes and smile at you. You were supposed to giggle about it, act nervously around each other but then kiss to make everything okay again. Britta isn't acting nervous, she's pacing and swearing and still naked and the morning's light streams in gold through her windows and her skin is lit up. You want to watch her forever but her blatant carelessness is making you self conscious. You tug the sheets closer around you and drop your gaze; her sheets are purple and you can’t believe you have only realised that now.

The stream of swearing moves until you can barely hear it. Britta’s stumbling through her living room and then her kitchen and you can hear the stove light in a lull of her freaking out. You imagine her running her hand through her messy hair as she fills up the kettle and sets it on the stove. Although it might mean more yelling and you being kicked out, you need to see her like this, naked and careless in her kitchen, spooning sugar into a mug.

By the time you’ve gotten up the courage to pad out to her, the swearing has stopped. She’s staring at her kettle which is bright red and at odds with the rest of the kitchen. You’re still wrapped in the sheet, wearing it like a toga because you are not Britta and are not confident or cool or beautiful enough to walk around naked like she is. Her eyes flick over to you for a minute and she stares. Her eyes are light, the sun is out after last night’s rain, and they seem to be asking and knowing and loving and wary. You open your mouth to say something, unable to draw away from her eyes, but then the kettle lets out a whistle and she whips around.

She is gorgeous. The skin of her back is touched gold by her huge windows and her hair is a messy halo. She has two dimples set low on her back and you marvel at the shadows they create, wonder at her long legs, ache to touch her her her. She's making up two mugs so you let out a breath you had forgotten about, knowing you're not being kicked out immediately. Her movements are still too fast and too animal but there is a sensuality to them, like she trusts you enough to just be Britta, to not harness herself.

When she hands you a coffee, her fingers brush along yours and you start to think that maybe things will be okay between you. A part of you smiles at that, but a larger part breaks. You don’t want okay, you don’t want normal and Greendale and fighting over Jeff and smiles over lunch in the cafeteria. You know more now, you know what you can have, and you need all of her. Kisses on her couch feel like air and her body against yours like need. You want to pull her to you roughly, kiss the normalcy out of your relationship. You want to push her against the kitchen counter and feel how warm her skin is against yours. You want all of that but she’s holding a coffee, and so are you, so you just take a sip and watch her.

She’s Britta and, because of that, she can’t stand still. You watch as she wanders into the lounge; steam from her coffee trailing after her like a call for you. You follow because you have no choice.  
She is pulling a record out of its dusty cover and opening the lid. It’s a record player; you haven’t seen one of these since you were little yet you’re still too nervous to walk over and look closer. Britta is still naked but you barely notice now, you just notice the shadows moving across her body, how the light hits her spine, her tumbling hair. There’s static in the air, a white noise that seems to make everything but Britta fade away. It stays for a few seconds and in that time, she turns to look at you.

Under her gaze you are frightened. You know she wants you, last night had proved that, but this is Britta and she doesn’t let herself want very well. So you stand there, pierced by her dark look in your purple sheet as crackly trumpets fill the room and a low voice sneaks through you.

Jazz.

Britta listens to Jazz.

It’s a tiny fact, almost non-important based on the events spanning the last twelve hours but it makes you realise that this is Britta. This is the girl who you wrestled in mud, the woman who regularly steals your lip balm and the friend whose hugs make you feel like things are going to work out. This is Britta, and you’re Annie and this shouldn’t be a big deal at all.

So you smile, soft as the voice sneaking out of speakers to fill the room. 

You smile, and Britta smiles back.

It's a small smile: one stained with the knowledge that she had freaked out just a little bit, that she was naked in front of you, that she was maybe, just maybe a little bit scared. A blush spreads across her cheeks and it brings life to her face, travels down to chest and brushes the tops of her breasts. She is naked and nervous and you are wrapped up in a sheet, and that doesn't seem fair to you.

You can feel the blush growing on your cheeks as well while you walk over to her but you're okay, she's okay, the two of you will make it through the soft, slow, awkward morning. You bring your arms up when you are close to her and pull her tiny body into yours in amongst the folds of the sheet. She looks so very bashful from her new purple cocoon and you pull her closer just to feel that sunshine body against yours, her soft skin and nervous hands and wild mess of hair. You kiss her, once, barely a peck but it brings her eyes to yours and you stare back, jazz still filling the room and leaving you enough excuses to not talk. 

She moves closer next, biting her lip before pulling you close enough that you can feel all her curves up against you. Her lips are on yours and her tongue is stroking so slowly across your bottom lip and a thousand feelings are springing up in your chest that you can barely identify. One is relief, huge calming relief that this is okay, that you are still able to run your hands down her back, that you still feel fireworks underneath your skin as she touches you. Another, maybe even larger is happiness filling you up like sunshine. The sheet had fallen to your hips when you moved your hands through her hair but you don't care about modesty anymore, not when every inch of you is warm and Britta's pulling back gently and placing a tiny kiss on your nose. You smile through your blush until finally, her words break through this bubble of morning you've created. 

"We should drink our coffee before it gets cold," she says, with a slight wrinkle of her nose and you only agree once you have kissed her again. 

There's probably a thousand things to talk about; how this will effect the study group, if you can do this again, if you can maybe do this every morning and damn the consequences, damn Jeff's jealousies over losing both of you and damn the myriad of lesbian jokes you will have to endure from Pierce. You should talk about that but instead you get your coffee from where you left it in the kitchen, let your eyes follow Britta as she walks into her room, coming out wearing underwear and holding onto a colourful ball of clothing. It's your underwear and a t-shirt, so soft and warm and blue and you smile gratefully because you are still so shy and her blinds aren't even closed and Britta is leaning on you, stretched out along the couch, sipping her coffee idly as the record hums its silence between two songs. 

It's not solving anything of importance and you still aren't completely sure where you stand, but Britta is curling close into you and her slowing breathing feels like the most important thing in the world.


End file.
